Geist
by Soakleaf
Summary: A story of a boy, his death, and his resurrection.
1. Chapter 1

The Beginning - 01

"Oi", the thug called out to the other in the local slang dialect of Russian, "You've short-changed me, you sneaky fuck!". He dropped the bag of drugs he was holding and pulled out his pistol, aimed directly at the dealer. His eyes widened and his thoughts became paranoid and schizophrenic, telltales signs of an addict. The other members of his gang and those from the opposite side unsheathed their weaponry as well, the dealer raised up both hands and replied, "Finder's fee, friend. We are not your enemies, don't make us be." The buyer's hands quivered. Both sides backed away from each other slowly, until they were close to their escape vehicles. 'Bang!' The buyer's gun discharged at the dealer, just once, and it missed as he ducked into the car screaming for the others to step on it to get the fuck out of there because the deal went bad. The dealers' crew hauled ass, none of them wanted to shoot at the buyer, his father was a big name in the big bad underworld. The buyer waved his pistol about like he was some supreme bad-ass until he saw who the bullet hit. Even from this distance, he could tell that the kid was a foreigner, which meant that the foreign embassy would get involved and the hammer of blame would fall on him. He fucked up. He rushed his boys into his ride and hopped in. He wanted to be out of there before the authorities showed up. He had a ton of explaining to do.


	2. Chapter 2

The Bargain - 02

'Bang.' That was the end. How unlucky one must be, to be hit by a stray bullet because of the locals' drug war. There was only one fatality that day, and that was his own. He had heard the sound after it was already too late. As he fell towards the ground, the world slowed down and became distorted, a man in an ushanka and spec ops gear stepped out into the alleyway and walked towards the boy. He moved at his own pace, each step taken deliberately and purposefully, yet he still made it to the boy in time to catch him and set him down gently. He mumbled something to the boy in Russian, something the boy couldn't and shouldn't be able to understand, but he _did. _It wasn't what the man said, that the boy understood, but he _felt_ what the man said. The boy nodded weakly and the man pulled out a combat knife from the sheath on the back of his belt and cut his own hand. A few drops of blood dripped into his eye socket. The one, which, up until a few minutes ago still held an eye. And in an instant, the world distorted once more in his vision, the man disappeared and was replaced with a different man, this one old, and reeking of alcohol and panic. He couldn't move, it was as if he was in a sort of paralysis, and the old man was holding his arm in an effort to check his pulse it looked like. The old man dropped his arm and ran off, yelling for something. It seemed he wanted to help the boy, but it was already too late for that. He heard the man from before whisper to him, a whisper that felt more like a command to follow, like that from a superior officer; cool, calm, and collected. He could move now, he sat up and felt around his right eye, not touching the inside of it, just feeling it's general vicinity, it was healed, or at least it felt so. He swept his long brown hair over his left ear. With a groan he stood, and walked towards the shadows near him, the shadow made from the buildings blocking the setting sun. He could _feel_ the man with the combat knife nod, which was a really odd feeling because he couldn't see him. As he stepped into the shadow, it engulfed him. He was no longer himself, he couldn't see or feel himself, but he could see outside the shadow, as if he _was_ the shadow. He saw the old man return and behind him, was a crowd of people.


	3. Chapter 3

The Aftermath - 03

"I swear! There was a boy here with a bullet lodged in his head!", the man screamed in his native language of Russian, "He was dead! I not only saw the gaping wound in his eye socket, I even checked his pulse!". The local onlookers scanned the area with their eyes, and seeing no sign of a boy, or a dead one at that, dismissed the old man as a drunk and a crackpot, the reek of vodka was obvious. He knew he smelled like vodka. He had just stopped by the bar on the other side of the buildings after work, in which he'd had a few drinks, yes, but he wasn't drunk. At least not drunk enough to make up the gunshot and the dead American boy in the back alley he was standing in. The locals shuffled out of the alley, losing interest. He shook his head and went to take a leak (which was the only reason he even ventured into the alley in the first place). He finished, zipped up, and turned around to leave the alley, when he saw him. The American boy in the matching baggy black outfit, a pair of pants with purple accessories which he'd often seen the raver subculture children wear on their way to rave parties, and the zip-up hoodie. He looked like the younger locals, the 19 to 20 year olds. Although his features were clearly foreign. He had Asian, almond shaped eyes, but he was definitely Caucasian, wasn't he? The boy pulled at his goatee, and smiled gently. He stepped up towards the man, and the man stepped back in response, clearly scared. The boy lifted up his hands, in a gesture most would use to show that they were unarmed, or weren't a threat. He looked at his right hand, and then to his right pocket, before slowly reaching down towards it. He pulled out a wallet and opened it. The old man glanced at it and it resembled, to him, a goldmine of sorts. There were large notes in the local currency, a lot of them. The boy took out at least fifty of these bills and handed it to him, the other hand slipping the wallet back into his pocket and then forming the 'shush' gesture, one finger over his lips. The old man nodded slowly and reached out to take the money, which he received with no resistance. The boy pulled out a cigarette and asked in his foreign tongue if the man had a lighter. The old man knew bits and pieces of English due to the town being a decent tourist destination and after recognizing the word, he fumbled in his pockets for his lighter and handed it over. The boy lit his cigarette and tossed the lighter back before walking out of the alley, waving a hand goodbye. "Das vedanya, comrade.", he said, in a voice that _definitely_ didn't belong to him, without looking back. He slipped his hands in his pockets and turned the corner. The old man rushed over to the end of the alleyway and peeked around the edge, but the boy was gone. All the shops down the street were closed (because it was getting late), and there were no alleys to duck into for a couple of miles down the road. The old man shivered once and shook his head. It was obvious he needed to keep this quiet. He took out a cigar and his lighter and lit up, inhaling slowly, before shoving the lighter back in his pocket. He looked back at the bar, and shook his head. He was through with drinking, no more for him, ever. He crossed his arms and shuffled home.


End file.
